


Malcolm Tucker And The Front Room Of Secrets

by Britpacker



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1213816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Director of Communications is, perversely, the repository all of Whitehall’s biggest secrets.  This at least means his department’s best-kept ones are all in the safest of hands…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malcolm Tucker And The Front Room Of Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Malcolm, of course, would expect to know everyone's secrets. I couldn't help but wonder how he'd react to a member of his staff finding out a few of his...

It invaded his dreams, slowly at first. The faintest pitter-patter of pebbles striking glass, as familiar and unthreatening as a cool summer rain against his face. On a deep, contented sigh Malcolm Tucker stretched to his full length and cracked open one heavy eyelid, turning his head on the pillow when the sound started again. He was a light sleeper these days, but that was an improvement. Back in the day, he’d been a certifiable fucking insomniac.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” he breathed, pushing a hand back through his rumpled grey hair.

Cautiously he worked his way free of the tangled bedding, one long, narrow foot waving above the floorboards like a kiddie’s at the swimming pool, suspended by a reluctance to risk splashing down. Inch by inch his long frame eased clear of the duvet’s embrace, the cold night air winding in its place like cobras around his naked form.

Yesterday’s suit trousers lay scrunched on the floor and he clambered into them still rubbing his gritty eyes. The shirt – well, his scrawny chest was nothing the wee twat hadn’t seen before; no need to bother with it, pausing only to twitch the curtains in reassurance before he tiptoed out onto the landing.

He missed out the second stair down as a precaution against its tendency to groan like an underfed belly. Flipped on the hall light for a moment, just long enough to snatch the key from its hook on the wall. “All right, all right, I’m fucking coming, aren’t I?” he growled at the shadowy figure just visible through the rippled glass insert in the upper panel. 

It was raining. He hadn’t registered that until he took in the drenched and dishevelled state of his midnight visitor. “Jesus _Christ_ , look what the fuckin’ cat’s puked up,” he grumbled, sticking out a hand to haul the drowned mutt inside before any of the neighbours could see. “Could you no’ afford the bus, man?”

Jamie MacDonald allowed himself to be manhandled with a placidity that anyone else would have found decidedly alarming. Malcolm, having seen it all before, merely rolled his eyes. “Thrown you out again?”

“Yeah.” Dripping water all over his boss’s laminate floor at stupid o’clock in the morning, his unruly curls plastered flat and straight against the sides of his head, Jamie looked up helplessly at his taller compatriot. “Sorry, you weren’t in bed, were ye?”

The dejection in the miserable cunt’s eyes killed any sarcastic response on the tip of Malcolm’s tongue. “Doesn’t matter. Come in, I’ll put the fire on – there’s a towel on the radiator, use it before you drip everywhere, yeah? Drink?”

“Thanks.” Mechanically, Jamie did as he was bidden, stripping off his sodden coat and rubbing the proffered bath sheet over his head and upper body. Bustling about in the dark, Malcolm could hear his friend’s uneven breathing; possibly the result of a long walk in the rain but more likely, based on past painful experience, the prelude to a burst of self-flagellating sobbing over what a prick he’d been and how right the poor long-suffering twat had been to kick him out this time.

One hand on the switch of the lamp on his coffee table Malcolm hesitated, staring greedily into the deep amber fluid swirling around his best cut-glass tumbler. What the fuck? He was going to need it, and Jamie could wait another minute.

He downed the contents in a single swallow, sloshing in twice the original amount by way of apology for the delay. Still standing in the middle of the lounge, dead eyes fixed on the floor, Jamie needed a sharp shaking before he could be persuaded to take it. “Sit down before you fall, OK?” Malcolm instructed, surprisingly gentle. Large blue eyes brimming over with tears wandered helplessly over his face.

“Christ, I’ve been such a fuckin’ prick, Malc!”

“Yeah, well that wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” Cold. With the mellow heat of whisky spreading through his empty stomach Malcolm’s body was becoming acutely aware of the hour’s chill, and though the first tongues of flame were beginning to lick around the fire’s coals it would be a while before their effect could reach him. Briefly, cruelly, he thought of his warm bed and the comfort within.

Jamie’s hiccoughing breath stopped the thought in its tracks. “Can I stay…” the younger man began, almost shyly. 

“As long as you need, y’ daft cunt.” He stretched across the low table to squeeze Jamie’s shoulder, conveying with the solid grip what all of his infamous eloquence wouldn’t have managed in words. Wet blue eyes locked onto cool grey.

“Thanks,” Jamie croaked, downing the best single malt without tasting its peaty glory. “I couldnae think – didn’t know where else to go…”

“No problem, all right?” Oh, it was bad this time. Malcolm had thought they’d grown out of the break-up and make-up cycle, it had been more than two years since the mangy wee mongrel had turned up on his doorstep in this state. “You gonna tell me what happened now?”

Even over his friend’s strangled squawk, he heard it. The ominous creak of the floorboard. The dainty, unmistakably feminine tread of a foot on the second stair. As Jamie scrubbed in vain at his swollen eyes Malcolm counted off the seconds, calculating the exact moment the switch would flick and the whole room flood with light.

“Come back to bed, Malc.” Low and musical, her voice was instantly identifiable. He even had time to watch Jamie’s jaw do a slow-motion drop before she shuffled round the door and into sight.

His own heart stuttered sharply. Wrapped in his heavy black dressing gown, her usually sleek brown hair a jumble of glistening waves, Sam Cassidy rubbed absently at her big brown eyes, more asleep than awake and blissfully oblivious to the bedraggled lump of miserable humanity hunched up on her lover’s couch. “It’s _cold_ without you,” she wheedled, lifting the trailing robe above her ankles before venturing closer.

Whether she caught his gasp or it was a natural phenomenon Malcolm couldn’t be sure, but he knew the exact moment she woke up enough to notice the intruder. “Oh hi, Jamie. Is it raining?”

She was good, and in MacDonald’s current state the brazen approach was the best one, not that Sam had any way of knowing that. “Pissin’ down, yeah,” Jamie answered, swivelling his eyes from one to the other so fast he was in danger of the balls popping out. “Fuck, pal I’m sorry! I didn’t know…”

“Nobody fucking knows; and I’d be really fuckin’ grateful if it stayed that way. Right?”

“I’m depressed all right, not fuckin’ suicidal.” A weak grin flitted across the younger man's pallid face. To prove the point he looked away while Sam settled herself into the chair facing his host’s, carefully arranging the voluminous folds of the borrowed dressing gown around herself. “Anyway, you know all my fuckin’ secrets, yeah? It’s about fucking time I got one of yours.”

Malcolm grunted. “So what happened this time?” he asked, and if she was surprised by the concern in his tone Sam didn’t show it. Jamie’s shoulders lifted.

“He said I was flirtin’ with the waiter.”

“ _He_ said?”

The two of them stared at each other: her mouth hanging open, his tightly pursed. “Just call me Father fucking Ted, OK?” Malcolm growled, ridiculously hurt that she didn’t immediately divert her full attention his way. “Turning my house into a fuckin’ confessional at two o’clock in the fucking morning! Forgive me, Father Jamie, for I have fuckin’ sinned; I’m shaggin’ this lovely lassie here. And Mother Superior, this child of the fucking seminary’s so far back in the fuckin’ closet you’d need a crowbar to force him out, all right? Any more secrets we want to let out?”

“Only that we’ve been _shagging_ , as you so eloquently put it, dear, for almost two years. And there’s no need for you to find another hostel, Jamie: as long as you’re not put out by the thought of Daddy here having sex, of course…”

“Kinky!” Malcolm put in, _sotto voce_. Jamie snorted.

“If you think he lived like a Jesuit before meetin’ you girl, you’re way off the mark!” he exclaimed. Malcolm rolled his eyes.

“I thought we’d established that’s more your kind of thing,” he drawled, winning a startled laugh from the younger Scot as he stood and clouted him firmly on the shoulder. “You know where the spare room is, OK? You’ll only need it tonight, Eddie’ll be ringing me by breakfast time sobbin’ his wee heart out in case you’ve gone and jumped off a fucking bridge! Sam, put the kettle on there’s a good girl. You – shower and bed, right? Of course you’re fuckin’ staying here, I’m not having you wanderin’ around London looking for a fight for the rest of the night, am I?”

Halfway to the kitchen Sam spun back around to stare. “Last time this happened the stupid prick turned up here covered in blood; we spent half the fucking night in A&E praying the press wouldn’t find out while his jaw was wired up,” Malcolm explained wearily. He thought Jamie winced at the memory.

“Yeah, well you should’ve seen the state o’ the other fucker!”

“Fuckin’ idiot.”

The insult was affectionate, and they all knew it. “You’ll say nothing in the office then?” Jamie asked hopefully. Gathering her borrowed robe up around herself Sam glided across to kiss him on the cheek.

“Nothing to say is there?” she challenged, acutely conscious of the piercing steel-coloured eyes boring right through her and into the third wheel. Jamie gave her a crooked grin.

“Only that you’re a lucky bastard, Malc! If I didn’t go the other way….”

“You still wouldn’t have a snowball in hell’s chance, Mister MacDonald.” They both laughed, two pairs of bright, brilliant eyes on her as she lifted the dramatic sweep of his robe and sauntered into the compact kitchen, flipping the light switch with the end of a manicured nail. “I’ll drop a water bottle into the spare bed for you, Jamie. I won’t need one myself will I, Sexy? You’ll find a way to warm me up.”

“Only if it doesn’t disturb the kids, Mam,” he shot back, feeling the laughter he tried so hard to repress dancing about in the back of his throat. Waiting just long enough for her to be safely out of the way, he brought a hand down hard on his deputy’s shoulder. “And you – not a fucking word, OK? We’ve kept this quiet for two years…”

“I can’t believe I didn’t guess.” On the bright side, discovering Malcolm’s secrets was taking Jamie’s mind off his own domestic problems; on the flipside, it was keeping Malcolm out of bed and the warmth said secret’s arms could provide. “I mean the others think you’re married to the job, but I thought I knew you better, yeah? And I mean it – you’re a lucky bastard. She’s a good lass.”

“The best.” Although a fucking awful singer, as she was demonstrating on her way up the stairs. Half the time Malcolm thought she broke into song simply for the satisfaction of having him kiss her quiet. “And you’re luckier than you fucking deserve yourself. How that poor cunt puts up wi’ you I’ll never fucking know!”

“Me neither, pal.” The hand on his shoulder propelled him forward toward the stairs. Jamie hesitated, gnawing his bottom lip. “When Eddie calls…”

“I’ll tell him you’re a twat, but you’re off sick until you’ve sorted things out, OK?”

“Thanks, Malc.” Briefly Jamie clutched his hand, the nearest he dared come to a hug. “And I’m sorry. If I’d known…”

“Yeah, well, be glad you didn’t and get off to bed.” Deftly turning off the fire and sweeping up the empty tumbler in one effortless motion Malcolm breezed through to the kitchen, shooing the other man toward the stairs. “Otherwise you’d be walkin’ around London for the rest of the fucking night! Sleep well.”

He waited just long enough to be sure their unexpected guest was safely occupied in the bathroom before creeping back to his own bed, deliciously warmed by her naked body. “Jamie’ll keep his mouth shut,” he whispered while she crawled into her accustomed position cradled in the crook of his arm, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Sam sighed, stretching contentedly against him.

“If he expects us to do the same?” she suggested, snuggling close enough to pass some of the sleepy warmth that enveloped her into his more chilled frame. Malcolm grunted.

“I’ve been keepin’ that squealing nancy’s secret for eight years,” he pointed out. “And don’t you worry; he’ll keep ours.”

“Malcolm.” Suddenly she was very wide awake. Sam heaved herself up, scrambling until she was straddling him and staring straight down into his shadowed eyes. “I understand why you’d prefer people not to know about us, but if you think for a moment I’d not be fucking _proud_ to have the whole of Westminster know I’m yours, you are off your bloody rocker! I love you, I want you and I’m proud to be with you, OK? All clear on that? Yes?”

“Yes.” One day – maybe – he could show the world exactly how proud he was to have this gorgeous, glorious girl sharing his bed and his life. Just not yet.

There was, he decided as he wound both arms around her, anchoring her close, a lot more chance of that than of that guilt-ridden son of the seminary currently sobbing his eyes out in the shower ever appearing with Eddie at the Christmas do. Which, all things considered, was kind of a shame.

He’d give good money, after all, to see Twatweasel’s face on the day he realised that (i) Malcolm Tucker had a much more successful love life than he did and (ii) his personal tormentor in chief, Malcolm’s own trusted right hand man, was gay!


End file.
